


And now the Lark doth Sing...

by ElegantBookworm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood Sweethearts, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantBookworm/pseuds/ElegantBookworm
Summary: Inspired by "Finduilas sitting at Talas Dirnen" by Talullah and created for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2019. The idea from the artwork turned into a picture of Finduilas' life in Nargothrond during happier times during a different season- the start of her romance with Gelmir (Spring) to a gift exchange by the fire side (Winter) that features a little head cannon as to the origins of a famous weapon. Apologies for incorrect translation and my atrocious elvish grammar, but I did my best. Enjoy!





	And now the Lark doth Sing...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talullah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/gifts).

The light of the new sun rose over the plain of Talath Dirnen, sending dappled rays of emerald light through the leaves of the trees in the copse. A lark chirruped one final note in its morning greeting before it took flight; it rushed through the trees towards the elf maiden with hair of beaten gold who stood just at the edge of the trees and joined the other songbird who were already eating the berries she offered from her hand. The elf maid laughed as the lark pushed a wren aside to get at a cherry.

“Do not worry little one,” she chided, “I have plenty for you all.”

“_Finduilas!_” The elf maid turned as a voice called from the distance. “_Where are you? Your uncle has summoned the court and your father is looking for you!_”

Finduilas stroked the lark’s head. “I must go dearest.” She scattered the remaining food on the grass and called out “I’m coming!” If her father was looking for her, then more time had passed then she had intended. But it was spring! Despite the glittering beauty of Nargothrond, how could one not spend every moment possible out among the green growing life that dwelt under Arien’s gaze? Lathwen was waiting for her with her brow creased in the half-worried, half-angry expression she wore whenever Finduilas tried her patience.

“My lady, you should not wander so far without guards!” Lathwen chided, “Should something happen-”

“No orc can venture so close to Nargothrond. It is safe enough.”

“I do not speak of orcs Finduilas! There are wild animals on the plain- what if you met with some accident? How would we know you needed aid?” Lathwen’s eyes were like iron, hard and serious. Finduilas looked away, more abashed at having irritated her friend than from shame at her alleged misdeed. When she judged enough time had passed, she turned back to Lathwen.

“I will bring a guard next time.” Feeling mischievous she added, “You could always join me.”

Lathwen wrinkled her face, as Finduilas had known she would. “I prefer the order of a garden rather than the chaos of the wilds.” They were approaching a side gate where Finduilas’ father was waiting. “Lord Orodreth.” Lathwen cupped her hand over her heart and held it out in salutation. He nodded to her in greeting.

“Lathwen, would you see that appropriate garb is ready for my daughter?” his voice was pleasant, far too much. Finduilas stiffened; more time had passed than she had intended, but not enough that she had missed court or would even be late to it. Her father wasn’t even dressed for it yet. As Lathwen left, Orodreth turned to his daughter. “A party has arrived from King Fingolfin. Apparently, the high king wishes to open trade between our kingdom and his.”

“As he should. Our harvests have been abundant of late.” Finduilas turned to her father, perplexed. Why was he concerned with something so trivial? “You do not think that is all the high king wants?”

Orodreth’s face was as stone. “No. Fingon is among the party. My uncle would not send his eldest son if he did not seek our aid in the war.”

A dark cloud darkened her mood; it was easy to forget, or rather, to ignore the war against Morgoth amidst the beauty of Talath Dirnen and Nargothrond. She held it to be one reason why her uncle Finrod had founded their kingdom, after seeing the ruin the great enemy could bring down upon the Noldor. Orodreth left his daughter at her rooms and Finduilas bathed and changed into proper court raiment: a gown of palest blue spangled with gold threads in the shape of elanor flowers that matched the gold flowers of her coronet. Both dress and crown had been a gift her Artanis, her father’s aunt who now dwelt in Doriath. Lathwen followed her to the great court, leaving to stand in the gallery when Finduilas took her place besides her father and great-uncle.

“_Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo_, Findekano.” It was hard to tell how her great-uncle felt at his cousin’s presence. “Welcome to Nargothrond.”

Findekano Astaldo, Fingon the Valiant, pressed his hand to his heart in greeting. “Findarato. Orodreth.” He said with a nod towards her father, “ I thank you for receiving my companions and I.”

Finrod smiled. “You know that you are always welcome here cousin. We shall feast and celebrate your arrival this night.”

“You honor me. By your leave, allow me to present my companions to you,” three elves stepped forward.

“Arog is known to us.” Her father said, smiling warmly at the old elf you had once been his teacher in arms. Orodreth paused, frowning slightly as his gaze turned to the remaining two elves. To Finduilas’ astonishment, her great-uncle wore a similar expression, a look of uncertainty in the face of something certain.

Fingon saw the look as well and laughed. “Worry not that you do not recognize them; they were only small when last you saw them. They are Gelmir,” the shorter one bowed, “and Gwindor, sons of Guilin.”

Finrod rose from his throne and went to embrace them. “Forgive me, the both of you, and welcome once again!”

Gelmir laughed merrily, the same wide grin upon his face that Finduilas remembered from the antics the three had shared as children. “It is true, my king, we have grown.”

Orodreth clasped Gwindor’s arm. “It is good to see the both of you once more.” He turned back to Finduilas, “Daughter, come and greet our kinsmen.”

Finduilas crossed the short distance between them to join her father and great-uncle. “Welcome, my lords.”

Fingon smiled at her. “Little Elvië.” He used her amilessë, her mother-name, “You’ve become as beautiful as Artanis.”

She blushed, embarrassed to receive such a compliment in front of her old playmates. “Thank you Lord Fingon.” The feeling of staring eyes upon her drew her to meet the gaze of Gwindor, who quickly looked away. As more of the court came forth to greet the new arrivals, Finduilas quietly slipped out of the hall and out to the small garden that was her secret pride and joy.The passion flowers vines were just coming into bloom, the flowers like purple stars that climbed up the willow tree she had had planted them around. It had been in memory of her mother’s garden that she had planted them. Finduilas sat down among the starflowers and peonies, her thoughts turning back to the great court. How long had it been since Guilin and his sons had left her uncle’s court to join that of the high king’s? She and Gelmir had been five centuries old, Gwindor seven when their mother had been killed by orcs and their father decided to return to the household of Fingolfin.Finduilas had wept for days when they’d left. Her joy at their return was marred by the bitterness that it was part of the high king’s plan to draw her father and great-uncle back into battle. A twig snapped, making her jump.

“Forgive me my lady,” Gwindor bowed, “but your father said you might be found here.”

She rose to her feet, feeling unsure and nervous. “Does he need me?”

Gwindor held up a hand as she started to leave. “No, I- I.” He stopped, and Finduilas realized he was nervous, “I only wanted to greet you away from the eyes of King Finrod’s court.” He smiled, the same smile he’d given her when they were children. “It is wonderful to see you again Lossë.”

It was the sight of that smile and hearing her play-name once more that made her grin. “As it is you Gwindor.”

He motioned at the ground. “May I sit?”

She nodded and they sat down simultaneously, neither wanting to be in the awkward position of being first. Gwindor looked around the garden, admiring a stand of lilies growing within his reach. “This place is beautiful. I do not think Yavanna could have created better than this.”

Without thinking, Finduilas swatted at his arm. “Hush such talk! I would never dream of making such a comparison!” Realizing what she had just done, her hands flew to her mouth. “Gwindor, I am sorry. I did not mean to strike you,” Finduilas bit her lip, “but you should not say such things.”

Gwindor stared at her a moment before his face broke into a grin. “Lossë do not fret. No wrong was done.” He took her hand in his. “You’re right though, my words could have been better said. If I told you that Yavanna has given her blessing here, would you take offense?”

“No.” Finduilas sheepishly said, embarrassed at both his teasing and his compliment. She decided then to change the topic. “The lands here have Yavanna’s favor. Our harvests have been bountiful. King Fingolfin would greatly benefit from trade with us.” She turned to look at him and saw that his mouth had taken on a wry twist. “What?”

“I am not here to talk of trade Finduilas.”

“I know.” Her mouth twisted. “How clever of King Fingolfin to use you and Gelmir to illicit aid for the siege from my great uncle.”

Gwindor released her hand. “Finduilas…,” His brow furrowed, as though her words had struck him a hard blow. “That is not why I came back. No one sent me.”

Finduilas stared at him, trying to keep the disbelief and suspicion from her voice. “Then why are you here Gwindor?”

He took her hand in his once more. “I requested leave of the high king to return here and join my mother’s people.”

That surprised her. “You’re here to stay?”

Timidly, almost uncertainly, Gwindor brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. “I am, if King Finrod will have me.” There was no need for him to speak the “_and you_” that followed.

Sunlight dappled in glistening shimmers upon the river, casting light into the eyes of anyone who looked at it. Water darters buzzed across the surface and swallows swooped to catch them. The land itself was still in the heat of high summer, save for the two Eldar who sat upon the river banks.

“You have to hold still,” Gwindor complained. “I’m terrible enough at this as it is without you moving.”

Finduilas plucked a handful of grass and threw it at him, more to annoy Gwindor than anything else. He frowned at her over the board he’d used to back the parchment and continued to draw.

“You should at least provide conversation while you work. I hate not being able to do anything.” She felt around around the ground beside her for her harp. “It won’t make any difference if I play Gwindor. A song might even inspire your work.”

Gwindor kept drawing, though he smiled at her offer. “How can I refuse Finduilas? You know how much I love your singing.”

She grinned and drew her harp onto her lap, running her fingers over the strings in a ripple of notes and suddenly paused. Of what should she sing? Feast songs she knew, but those did not seem right for this. Gwindor delighted in her music and Finduilas wanted to give him a song requiring skill enough that would show him how much his delight meant to her. A falcon’s cry, the hunter of Manwë brought the answer to her.

_Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear! O Queen beyond the Western Seas!_

_O light to us that wander here amid the world of woven trees!_

_Gilthoniel! O Elbereth! Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!_

_Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee in this far land beyond the sea._

_O Stars that in the Sunless Year, with shining hand by her were sown,_

_In windy fields now bright and clear, we see your silver blossom blown!_

_O Elbereth! Gilthoniel! We still remember, we who dwell_

_In this far land beneath the trees, thy starlight on the Western Seas._

The scratch of pen on parchment seemed especially loud as the last notes faded into the wind. Finduilas thought she saw Gwindor wipe a tear from his eyes, but he was looking back to his drawing before she could know for sure.

“It doesn’t seem fair does it?” She murmured, a sudden twinge of rebellion flaring within her. “Neither of us were even alive during the Crossing; we were born here and yet still the Ban falls upon us. For all he is the judge of the Valar, Mandos was not just when he doomed those not yet born.”

Surprised, Gwindor set down parchment and pen. “I never thought to hear such sentiments from you Finduilas. What has brought this on?”

Finduilas bit her lip, unsure how to explain her feelings without sounding even more treasonous. “Perhaps it is the sea-longing. I’ve never actually seen the sea though.”

Gwindor saw the opportunity to turn their conversation away from the sorrow it had headed into. “It is vast. I was awed by the Teleri’s love for it when my father took Gelmir and I to the coast.”

Her fingers itched to touch the strings her her harp once more. Surely he remembered thatthe blood of the Teleri mingled with that of the Noldor within her? Memories of Alqualondë meant that the king’s Telerin mother nor her people were spoken of often, but neither was that kinship kept secret in Nargothrond. “I only know one song of the sea.” Finduilas murmured and began to play the song.

_I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:_

_Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew._

_Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,_

_And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree._

_Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,_

_In Eldamar beside the wall of Elven Tirion._

Propped upon his elbow, Gwindor rolled onto his back as she finished. “Did you write that yourself?”

Finduilas set her harp down upon the bank and lay down next to him. “My great aunt wrote it. She taught me the song when she grew tired of all the questions I asked her about Eldamar and Valinor. I’ve always wondered what Eldamar looked like, but neither my father, the king, or she will tell me more than that.” She felt him lift a strand of her hair and weave it about his fingers. The warmth of the summer sun and the scent of wild grasses made the very air heady and tranquil, almost encouraging one to laze as Finduilas and Gwindor did upon the river bank. A soft breeze stirred the grass and wildflowers around them; Gwindor picked several tiny blushflowers, the same color as her dress, and began weaving them into her hair. When Finduilas wore a crown the flowers, he tucked one final flower behind her ear.

“You’ve sung Varda’s praises and your great aunt’s lament. Sing me something of your own making.”

“Of my own making?” The sorrow that had settled on her made his request surprising. She suspected that it was his attempt to lift her out of the gloom.

Gwindor smiled at her. “I’ve heard it said in the court that your craft with music is as great as Maglor’s. Besides, I know you’ve written songs since we were children.” He picked up her harp as gently as if it were a child. “No more of sorrow. Doom or no, we should celebrate that beauty that surrounds us. Play something of that for me Finduilas.”

Finduilas waited a moment, just long enough that it seemed she would refuse Gwindor before she took her harp from him. She smiled and ran her fingers across the strings in the opening chord.

_Lady of the fields and flowers, Queen of Forrests green,_

_Upon the ground where ere you trod do the flowers spring._

_For you do lark and nightingale take pleasure in their song_

_O Vana, Vana, Ever Young!_

_Lady of the Golden Tree,_

_Whose love did strengthen fallen Laurelin_

_Who brought us hope anew._

She finished the final notes of the song, her eyes watching Gwindor’s face for what he thought of it. When he said nothing, worry began to gnaw at Finduilas. “Did you not like it?”

“It was wonderful. I simply could not think of the right words to describe it. Even now I feel that I am doing a poor job.” Gwindor brushed her hair from her face. “You shine with more beauty than the sun _melda nin_. I would always remember you as you are this day Faelivrin.”

“Is that a love-name?” She asked.

Gwindor’s finger traced her jaw before he set his lips on her, giving Finduilas her answer. They parted eventually, both grinning and Finduilas nodded towards the parchment. “You should let me see it.”

He balked at that. “My skill with the pen is not equal to yours with the harp; I fear you might judge it too soon.”

Finduilas shrugged and turned to settle into Gwindor’s arms. “You need never fear risking my judgement.” He kissed her once more and the light of the afternoon’s sun began to turn the world to gold.

The leaves were aflame in autumn amber and gold, the fields high with barley and wheat waiting to be gathered as Finduilas hurried through the harvest rows as she followed the high childish laughter just ahead of her.

“I can hear you!” She sang, eliciting even louder giggles from her quarry. A flash of blue amidst the golden rows caught her eye and Finduilas knelt, ready to spring. She lunged, grabbing the elf child around the waist and falling to the ground as he shrieked with laughter.

“No, no _nessa_, no!” He giggled as she tickled him.

Finduilas kept tickling her little brother until Gil-galad fell to hiccuping. Releasing him to catch his breath, she sat back, enjoying the crisp air and bright sunshine. Seeing she was distracted, Gil-galad threw himself into her lap, still grinning.

“Can we go find Gwindor?” He asked. “That way you could hide too and it would be more fun.”

“You know he is out inspecting the harvest with the king and father,” she replied, guessing in a heartbeat at what her brother really wanted. Finduilas gave him a wry smile. “But I suppose we could have our horses saddled and go join them.”

Gil-galad bounded to his feet in an instant, eliciting another laugh from his sister. Only three months had passed since he’d been deemed old enough to have his own horse, and the young princeling sought any excuse he could find to go ride. He ran back towards the palace, Finduilas laughing as she called for him to wait. Within the hour they were galloping across the fields. Catching a glimpse of the twined serpent sigil of her great-uncle’s banner, Finduilas lead her brother across the ford of the river. Gwindor saw them as soon as they had crossed and rode to meet them.

“_Mae govannon_!” He called, bringing his horse alongside theirs. “What brings the two of you here?”

Finduilas returned his kiss. “My brother wanted an excuse to go riding. I could hardly say no, could I?”

Gwindor smiled and turned to Gil-Galad. “Well my prince, what say you to a ride to Taur-en-Faroth? That’s a spirited mount you have there; I think both she and her rider are up to the challenge.” He looked back to Finduilas. “You’re going to join us aren’t you?”

Pretending to contemplate her answer, she tapped her heels into her mare’s flank, sending the horse off into a gallop. Less than a minute later she heard Gwindor and her brother galloping to catch her up. The horses and their riders flew across the plain, blurs of colors among the fading green and bright gold of the landscape. The hill of the hunters, at first a distant smudge, grew larger until Finduilas guided her horse onto the switchback path that lead to the hill’s summit. The guards at the watchtower there gave her a silent greeting before turning back to their duty. She dismounted and Brough the reins over her horse’s head, letting the mare crop at the grass as they waited for the others to reach them. It wasn’t a lon

g wait; soon enough she could hear the happy chatter of her brother.

“My compliments to the victor!” Gwindor called.

Finduilas grinned at him and then motioned at her little brother. “You have not seen the view from her yet,” she told Gil-galad, “Come and see.” The three of them walked through the strand of trees, Finduilas and Gwindor eagerly waiting for Gil-Galad’s reaction to what lay ahead. They were not disappointed. The young elfling gasped, making his sister and her betrothed smile. From the top of Taur-en-Faroth one could see the entire plain of stretched out before them like some great tapestry. The sun was low enough in the west that it made the land shimmer.

“_Alcar i Manwë_!” Gil-galad whispered. “Is this what Arda looks like to the king of the Valar?”

“I think it would be hard to find a better view.” Finduilas replied, joining Gwindor who sat upon the ground. He tucked her under his arm when she leaned against his chest.

“Take care my prince!” Gwindor called after Gil-Galad, who was already scrambling up a tree to gain an even higher vantage.

Finduilas poked Gwindor in the ribs. “He will be fine. A squirrel could not climb better than my brother. You worry more for him than I do.”

Gwindor gave her a half-hearted shrug. “I would rather not have to explain to your father and the king how my future _indisihoneg_ came to harm under my watch.”

She kissed him and laughed. “You’ve fought orcs and the wolves of Morgoth, and yet it is my father’s wrath you fear?”

“It was only one wolf.”

“Whatever will you do when you begin Gil-Galad’s arms training?”

He grinned impishly. “Do not worry. I’ve already looked into having him wear a shirt of _mithril_.”

Snowflakes drifted to the ground in a gentle twirling dance, covering the forrest like a cloak of purest white. The sight was so beautiful, glittering like the jewels of the Nauglimir, that Finduilas felt a little guilty to Marr it with even her light footprints. She walked among the trees, a figure of red amidst the dazzling white, searching for the ash sapling she had found the week before. It was perfect for the gift she wanted to give her brother for Turuhalmë. But the sudden snowfall a day ago had disguised even this familiar forest, hiding landmarks and paths from the folk of Nargothrond. After walking a few yards more, Finduilas spied the sapling, right next to the larger ash tree she had used to remember the way. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, wrapped her hands around a slender branch, and hope she had enough of her Sindarin mother in her to make this work. Tree-singing was not a gift of the Noldor, just as forge-craft was not a strength of the Sindar. When the first little stretch told her that the branch was growing, Finduilas grinned and added more strength to her song. She sang for nigh unto three hours, willing the branch to lengthen, to strength itself harden than elf-iron, enchanting it against the decays of time. Finally, when it had reached the length she wished, Finduilas sang it free. The stave she now held was perfectly smoothed and balanced, ready for the work she had asked the smiths to perform. As the smith prepared to engrave the inscription she had written upon the blade, a thought occurred to Finduilas.

“Hold a moment!” She ordered. “I would change the name I have given it.” The smith handed her the piece of paper with the inscription and she quickly made the change.

The smith took the paper back from her. “Very good my lady. If you wish, I will send the spear to you when it is finished, or you may wait here, though,” he smile spoke of conspiracy, “the young young prince was here looking for you this morning.”

Finduilas smiled back. “Then you’d best send it to me.” She made her way back to her rooms, stopping briefly to admire the preparations underway for the great feast that night. Great boughs of pine had been brought into the hall and hung amidst sparkling crystals from the ceiling; the air was filled with their rich scent and that of crisp winter air. Tapestries depicting scenes of Vallinor had been hung along the walls, their rich hues making the images seem almost real. Casks of wine and mead from the dwarves of Ered Luin were being rolled into the hall, much to the joy of the elves in the hall. She smiled at their cheer and turned to go back to her rooms to make her own preparations. Lathwen had drawn a bath and laid out the gown she would wear tonight; Finduilas ran her fingers over the sumptuous velvet, green as the deep forest in high summer, marveling once more at the intricate embroideries of birds and flowers that had been done in gleaming thread of mithril. The belt she was to wear with the gown lay in its box on a small table. Of gold it was, a gift from the dwarves of Ered Luin, worked with their skill so that it sat as lightly as a flax thread around her waist. Her hair still damp from the bath, Finduilas sat at a mirror as Lathwen began to arrange her hair. Her coronet was new, an early gift for Turuhalmë that her father had given her to wear tonight. From its craftsmanship, it came from Ered Luin as well, though the brilliance of the gems set between the golden vines and flowers had to be from the treasures brought from Valinor. They caught the light and cast it about Finduilas’ hair like dozens of little suns.

Merriment echoed through the cavernous halls of Nargothrond as she made her way to the feast that night, arm in arm with Gwindor, handsome in a tunic of wine colored silk and silver. Finduilas seemed with pride to see it; the silver Mallory leaves embroidered on it were her work. Gwindor also bore the coronet King Finrod had given upon his brow, a circlet of silver that gleamed like moonlight.

“You look beautiful tonight Finduilas,” he whispered, “Though beauty does little to describe you rightly.”

Finduilas smiled and took a sip of wine, pleased if a little embarrassed at such a compliment. “You look very well too Gwindor. Such colors suits you.”

As servants brought food the the high table, Grinder quickly took something from his tunic and tucked it into her hand so as not to be seen. “I know that private gifts are to be exchanged once the feast is done, but I could wait no longer.”

“Impatience is your greatest folly.” She teased, opening the small box anyway. Inside was a simple pendant necklace of a golden bird in flight. “Oh Gwindor, it is exquisite!” Finduilas gasped, and Gwindor was pleased to hear her say so. “Help me with it!”

The necklace fell lightly just below her collarbone. “You are a wild and free spirited as any songbird Faelivrin.” Gwindor softly said. He looked over to where Orodreth was sitting a chair away from them. “I think your father would have us turn our attention back to our other feast companions. The log is about to be turned”

Indeed it was. As soon as the great log had been turned to welcome in the new year, the dancing began and the wine flowed more freely than ever before. By tradition, the first dance belonged to the king, but Finrod gave the honor to Finduilas and Gwindor that night. Giddy with wine and laughter, Finduilas couldn’t keep from grinning like an impish child as Gwindor wrapped his arm about her waist to counterbalance her as they spun through the dance. The rest of the court soon joined it, a glittering and swirling assemblage, happy to forget their troubles and woes with the promise that the new year brought with it. The midnight watch had been called some time ago when everyone finally retired to smaller, private celebrations to exchange gifts for Turuhalmë. After his gift to her, Finduilas feared that her own present for Gwindor would disappoint him, but he was as pleased by her gift of a mithril edged scabbard as she had been by the necklace.

“Finduilas!” Both she and Gwindor turned as Gil-Galad stood holding the unwrapped spear that had been her gift to him. King Finrod and her father smiled at the young elf prince; Finduilas had asked their leave months past to gift him with his first weapon. “This is wonderful!”

“Read the blade.” She ordered, happy to see the reaction from him that she’d hoped for.

Gil-galad turned to spear to read the inscription: “_Gil-galad ech vae vaegannen matha. Aith heleg nín i orch gostatha. Nin cíniel na nguruthos. Hon ess nín istatha: Aeglos_.” He looked up at her, puzzled. “Icicle?”

“I thought the name fitting for the season.”

Her brother set the spear down carefully before hugging her. “It is perfect. I will treasure it always.”

Finduilas returned his embrace with equal fierceness. “And use it well. May the Enemy learn its name and despair.”

And so the Enemy did. Gil-Galad wielded Aeglos in many battles after the Fall of Nargothrond and the death of Finduilas, even to the Battle of Dagorlad where he bore it to victory against Sauron, though victory cost Gil-Galad his life.


End file.
